


Flight Cycle 3

by rubygirl29



Series: Flight Cycle [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29





	Flight Cycle 3

**Forgiven**

He had a home. He had friends. Then why did he feel like his world was fractured right along with his heart? It was worse than when he had first come to Atlantis; half-wild, lost, and so used to running from the wraith that everything and everybody had seemed a threat to him. They had looked at him then with fear, which was hurtful enough, but now fear had been replaced by distrust and betrayal. Nobody would call him a traitor to his face, but he could read their thoughts.

Once, it wouldn't have mattered to him. When had it become so important? When Teyla had first spoken gently to him? When Sheppard had offered to help him, or when Beckett had taken the tracking device from his back and ended his sentence as a Runner? Every one of his friends had somehow pieced his fractured soul together and welcomed him into their home ... which had become his home until he had turned his back on it.

His room had been stripped of most of his possessions, even of his painting. He knew it wasn't pretty, like the art Elizabeth Weir once had in her quarters, or as simple and stark as Sheppard's poster of Johnny Cash, but it was all he had of Sateda's warrior heritage. His heritage. He supposed the painting was somewhere in storage. He hoped it hadn't been pitched. Teyla had offered to find it for him. Maybe filling the empty space on the wall would fill the emptiness he felt inside.

He was weary, grief-stricken and disheartened. He dropped the tunic he had been holding to the floor, and sank down on the bed. He eyed the small blue pills Keller had given him in a paper cup. “For pain,” she had said. Ronon wished it could dull the ache in his heart as well as ease his bruises and cuts. He missed Beckett. He thought Keller was a little afraid of him, but she had gently tended to his wounds. Her kindness had nearly undone Ronon’s stoic endurance. Thankfully, he had escaped before that had happened.

The tattoo on his forearm itched. He had gotten it to remember old friends; now it was an eternal reminder of regret and betrayal. It couldn't be undone; it marked his flesh as surely as the blood of his fellow Satedans stained his soul. He picked up one of his knives, idly testing the blade and wondering what he would do if Colonel Carter stood by the IOA instead of standing against them. He would have to leave and start over. He had done that before; built himself up from nothing. He had survived the fucking wraith. He could start fresh one more time. Last time you weren't leaving John … He dropped the knife and buried his face in his hands.

He didn’t even hear the chirp of his door chime until it slid open. He straightened, trying to look as if he was just tired. Teyla stood there, holding his painting. “Can I come in?” she asked.

“You got my painting?” He blinked a bit as if the light hurt his eyes.

“Yes, Rodney felt you should have it back.”

“I didn’t give it to him.”

“He assumed you had left it behind.”

She handed it to him and he leaned it against the wall. It looked good, felt right to have it back again. It was a part of him returning. “Thanks.”

“How are you doing?” There was that gentleness in her voice that shook him. She seemed to know the answer.

“I’m … all right.” It was the truth, mostly.

“It's nice to have you back,” she said with a smile that was both happy and sad.

“Good to be back.” He realized that he meant it. But that didn’t guarantee his continued presence in the city. “You seen Sheppard?”

“He has been with Colonel Carter reviewing the raid and what went wrong. And what went right,” she added.

“Do you think she’ll let me stay?” Ronon whispered.

“I believe she understands why you left. I do not know her well, but she seems to be fair and reasonable.”

It wasn’t quite the reassurance he needed, but Teyla was, above all else, honest in her opinions. “Thanks again for finding my painting,” he said, which was the only way he knew to tell her that he wanted to be alone. To his surprise, she set her hands on his shoulders and bent her head to touch his in a traditional Athosian salute before she made a graceful exit.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*  
Sheppard was tired, irritated and worried. Not the face he wanted to present to Samantha Carter on their first operational review, particularly when that op had been a total cluster-fuck. How screwed had they been? Let me count the ways …

“Colonel? Colonel Sheppard?”

He started. “Sorry. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Carter closed her laptop. “It was interesting to say the least. But we’re all back home. That’s what counts in the end.”

“Even Ronon?”

She sighed. “John, totally off the record, can we trust him?”

“I trust him,” John said, leaning forward. “If that's what you're asking.”

“He left your team and the city to go off with his people. People who were allied with the wraith.”

“He didn’t know that!” John’s frustration broke through his control. “Ronon’s a Satedan. How much do you know about that culture?”

“Only what I’ve read in the briefings,” Sam admitted.

“He was in their military. He led his own eschalon. I know what that means, and I know you do, too. Think of the Satedans as being a race of special forces soldiers. They live large, fight harder, risk more, and never die easily. Ronon fought until he was the last man standing. He was captured by the wraith, implanted with a tracking device and then used as prey until he turned the tables on them. He survived for seven years like that. You saw what the wraith did to his so-called friends, but Ronon was the only one strong enough to be a Runner. I can’t count the times he’s saved my life, McKay’s life, Teyla’s, Lorne’s … The whole damn city. He’s a good man. He deserves better than to be treated like a traitor.”

“That’s quite an eloquent defense. But I’ve made my decision.”

Sheppard was stunned, certain that he knew what she meant. He rose slowly. “I’ll tell him. He’s my friend. I won’t sever that tie, not even for Atlantis.”

“John, wait. Don’t you want to know exactly what I’ve decided?”

He stopped in his tracks, turned to her, afraid to hope. “What?”

“Tell him he’s welcome to stay. He’s reinstated to full active duty as a member of your team as soon as Dr. Keller signs off on his medical status.”

Sheppard’s eyes came up to hers, and he wasn’t at all sure what she was able to read in his expression. “Thank you, Colonel.”

He was already halfway to the door when she spoke again. “Colonel Sheppard – just so you know – I made my decision when he came sliding through the gate.”

“So I spilled my guts for nothing?” Now that he could breathe again, he could smile.

“I had to be sure that you wanted him back.”

Wanted him? God … This time, he guarded his emotions. “You made the right decision. Goodnight, Colonel. Welcome to the Pegasus Galaxy.”

She returned his smile. “Call me Sam. I get the impression that military protocol isn’t a high priority around here. And have something to eat, you look like you could use it.”

He made a sketchy salute and left her office. He was shaky. Maybe he was getting like McKay -- hypoglycemic. He wasn’t sure when he’d eaten last. When he sat across the table from Ronon with his world falling apart?

As much as Sheppard wanted to tell Ronon the news, he imagined the Satedan needed some time. He had left him in the infirmary to have his injuries assessed and bandaged. When Ronon had come through the passage on the wraith base, he had looked like he’d fought his way out of an abattoir. Most of the blood hadn’t been his. Whose blood it was, Sheppard hadn’t asked. Wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He paused outside the mess hall. Maybe Carter was right. He needed to eat something. He ordered two turkey sandwiches and two cups of coffee to go. He headed towards Ronon’s room and saw Teyla coming out.

She waited for him, anticipating his question. “He is … as well as can be expected, I believe.”

“He’s had a rough few days,” John said.

“As have you. What was Colonel Carter’s decision?”

He thought she already knew, judging from the smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Well, as a wise man once said, ‘The ship isn’t sinking and the voyage can go on.’”

“I’m glad.” The smile blossomed. She laid a hand on his arm. “For all of us. Goodnight, John.” She glided away and he once again marveled that she could be so completely feminine one moment, and the next be as fierce a warrior as any man.

He paused at the door. Gave an old-fashioned knock instead of using the chime. It just seemed more personal, courteous. A moment later, the doors opened and Ronon stood there. He looked at John, at the tray of coffee and the sandwiches in his hand. He took them, set them aside, then with a quick glance up and down the corridor, pulled John inside.

Sheppard slammed against his chest, buried his fingers in Ronon’s hair, pulled his head down and whispered fiercely. “If you ever talk about leaving Atlantis, it will be over my dead body. Got it?” Before Ronon could recover from his surprise, Sheppard kissed him, forcing his tongue into Ronon’s mouth as if he could will him to feel the storm of emotion that was pouring out of his heart.

Ronon yielded. He was holding John so tightly that he felt like his body was being absorbed into Dex's. It was what he wanted. He gave everything into that kiss until he heard Ronon grunt with pain. He was suddenly aware of the salty, rusty taste of blood. The cut on Ronon's lip had opened. Sheppard broke away, wiped the blood from his mouth. “God, I'm sorry. You should have stopped me.”

Ronon laughed. “Right. 'S'nothing. Just a little blood.” He dabbed at it. “It'll stop in a second.”

“I think you've lost enough today.” He pulled Ronon over to the bed, gave him a small shove to sit him down. “Let me look at that.”

“I told you, it's nothing.” But he endured John's study.

John touched the corner of his mouth with gentle fingers, tilted his head towards the light and started cataloging the injuries. There were too many to add up. He stopped. “God, that cut ... you came close to losing an eye.” He traced the scab and the slightly raised stitches Keller had meticulously placed. “It doesn't look like you'll even have a scar.”

“I was backing away from the strike, I guess. Keller's got good hands. It's not like I don't have other scars,” he said.

The fire had left John. He nudged the small table across the floor towards the bed. “I stopped by the mess and picked up something. I don't think either of us has eaten for a while.” He passed a sandwich to Ronon.

He unwrapped it and took a bite, careful not to tear the scab again. “It's good. Thanks.”

“I talked to Colonel Carter.”

“Am I packing?” He was very still.

“Like I said, the next time you want to leave Atlantis, it will be over my dead body. Carter saw how valuable you are, and how loyal. She's reinstating you to full active duty as a member of my team as soon as Keller signs off.”

“Really?” There was just the faintest hint of disbelief in Ronon's voice.

“No. I'd lie to make you feel better.”

“Okay.” He chewed some more. “You're okay with that?”

John sighed, set his sandwich aside. “Ronon, listen. We've been through a lot together. I don't regret anything.” He captured Ronon's hand and stroked lightly across his bruised knuckles. “Not one thing. Got that?”

“Got it.” Ronon's lips twitched. He slowly pulled his hand away, as if he were reluctant to break the contact. His thigh pressed against John's; a warm weight and maybe a promise of what was to come. They ate in silence, both suddenly ravenous. Ronon wolfed his sandwich down.

“I should've gotten three,” John said, still chewing.

“I'll live.” Ronon sat cradling his coffee. His long fingers wrapped around the mug as if he needed to feel the heat.

John looked around. “Your painting's back,” he said.

“Teyla found it. McKay had it.”

“Rodney?” He nearly choked. “You're kidding? It's not exactly his taste.”

“You don't think he wants to be a warrior?”

“McKay wants to win the Nobel Prize for physics.” He swallowed the last bite of his sandwich. “I should have kept it for you,” he said. “I'm sorry. But by the time I got back here from the village, it was gone.”

“Not your fault.” Ronon sighed. “None of it was.” He leaned back against the wall, pulling Sheppard back with him. John settled in; his body fitting against Ronon's more easily than he had expected. He felt Ronon breathing, felt his heart beating strongly against his back.

“You and Teyla were right,” Ronon continued. “I was trying to change the past. I wanted something that was impossible. I wanted Sateda.” He looked unutterably sad. His eyes were fixed on the painting. John expected him to say something about it, but instead he asked, “Why do you keep the picture of Johnny Cash?”

“Because he understood pain.” That sounded way too serious. “And he's cool. He played the guitar. He dressed in black, and it drove my dad crazy when I hung it on my wall. I like it. It reminds me of where I came from.”

“Do you miss Earth?” Ronon's eyes were guarded, but John felt that he was asking for more than a simple answer.

“Sure, I do. But Atlantis is home,” he said. “It's okay to miss Sateda, as long as you remember that this is your home, too, for as long as you need it or want it to be.”

Sheppard waited out the silence. He watched Ronon's throat work against emotion and didn't touch him. Finally, he said, “Sounds good.” And he smiled into John's eyes.

Sheppard felt the slide of Ronon's muscles as he moved. Then they were kissing, gently exploring at first until John fingered Ronon's nipple and felt it harden. He gasped into Sheppard's mouth. The kiss changed to pure, white heat.

They kissed, tongues tangling, bodies rubbing until they were both fighting for breath. Sheppard broke away. “Door locked?”

“Don’t know.” He shifted Sheppard’s body off his and entered his lock-code on the door. “It is now.”

John watched him hungrily. “Strip.” His cock was throbbing. He’d been denied this for too long, and waiting even one second longer was unbearable. His eyes held Ronon’s and he tugged off his t-shirt as he watched Ronon undress. He shoved his loose pants off and stood naked before Sheppard.

John swallowed. Ronon was beautiful. Hard muscle, skin that gleamed in the light, soft shadows at his groin where his shaft was erect and swollen. He felt a bit dizzy. He stood to strip down, but Ronon crossed over to him, captured his hands.

“I’ll do it.” He kissed John, hot lips trailing down his throat. He paused to tongue his nipples into hard nubs, making John shudder. His breath whispered lower. His fingers worked the fastenings on John’s BDUs. Ronon forced him back until the pressure of the mattress buckled his knees. He waited, aching, as Ronon dealt with the laces on his boots and pulled them off.

“Hurry,” John urged. He wanted to feel all that glorious skin the length of his body. Ronon gave a slight huff as he stripped off John’s pants and skivvies. They were both naked and falling back to the bed. There was a brief, awkward moment as their bodies and minds struggled for dominance. Then they both started laughing, tussling for position.

Sheppard, somehow, ended up on top. “I win.” The look in Ronon’s eyes took his breath away. “What?”

“Don’t care.” Ronon’s hand caressed the back of his neck. He grinned. “Let’s fuck.”

John could feel his heartbeat in every part of his body, but he grinned back. “I thought you'd never ask.”

*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Ronon had the feeling that by the time Sheppard had finished, he wouldn't be asking, he'd be begging. Sheppard used that beautiful mouth of his in ways Ronon hadn't thought possible. On his jaw, his neck; a faint brush against his tattoo followed by a quick nip and a cooling breath. Sheppard ran his tongue along Ronon's collarbone, sucking at the hollow of his throat. Ronon buried his hands in John's thick hair, tugging him upward to kiss him again. He would have made Sheppard work for it, but he didn't want to start bleeding again, so he let him part his lips gently, softly. The tenderness of his mouth contrasted with the rasp of the stubble on his chin and upper lip. Ronon sighed into his warmth. Their tongues danced against each other, sending shocks of arousal through his body. He began an instinctive thrust into John's pelvis, rocking into that sweet hollow, seeking Sheppard's cock.

“No.” Sheppard whispered harshly. “Wait.” And Ronon did, as if it were a command.

John sucked his nipples into nubs, then rolled them between his fingers. Ronon shuddered, but held still. Sheppard's stubble and silky hair brushed a counterpoint down his abs; his warm hands moved to Ronon's thighs and his thumbs caressed the sensitive crease between hard muscle and the softer skin of his groin.

“Suck me,” Ronon said, giving his own command in a voice so swollen with need that he scarcely recognized it as his own. He nearly cried out when Sheppard's mouth covered his cock. Sheppard worked him, teasing his balls with his fingers, brushing flesh, rimming him lightly. He managed to rasp out, “Oil, drawer.” And wanted to curse when Sheppard moved away to fumble in the chest at the side of the bed.

“What is it?” John asked, breathless.

“From Teyla. For sore muscles.” He opened his eyes. Sheppard was studying the bottle warily.

“It won't … you know … ?” One brow shot up as Sheppard's thumb and forefinger moved closer together in a shrinking motion.

Ronon laughed. “Trust me. It won't.”

Sheppard yanked the cork out with his teeth, spat it out and poured the oil in the palm of his hand, slicking himself up first, then Ronon more slowly. “Like this?” His long forefinger slipped into Ronon's body. He gasped at the intimate intrusion. Sheppard was watching him intently; those bright changeable eyes gone dark and soft as he looked into Ronon's. He slid his finger out and in, working the muscles until they loosened.

“Cover me,” Ronon whispered and turned to his stomach. Sheppard stretched out over him, warm and heavy. Ronon felt his hands sweeping aside his hair, exposing his neck. Sheppard kissed him there, sweetly. His lips moved down his back, pausing at the place where the wraith had cut him open. The scar was gone, but Sheppard knew where it had been. The kiss he placed there took away the memory as surely as McKay had taken away the scar.

“Lift up,” Sheppard spoke into his ear, nipped lightly at the shell. Ronon tucked and Sheppard's arms came around him. He thrust into Ronon's body. There was pain at first, then fullness and the pulse of his muscles tightening around Sheppard's cock. He began to rock, each movement brushing his shaft against something deep inside Ronon. Waves of pleasure rushed through him. Sheppard's arms were iron-hard around him, as if holding on to him would anchor them both in this world.

They climaxed together. Shaking, shuddering, gasping, with Sheppard uttering a curse as he came.  
A curse, or a prayer – Ronon wasn't sure which – before his own dark passion carried him away from everything but the man who was one flesh with him and whose heart echoed the same beat.

Sheppard's erection softened and he slipped from Ronon's body. They lay close; Sheppard on his stomach and Ronon half on his side with one leg thrown across John's. He idly traced down the channel of Sheppard's spine. There were scars there – a warrior's badges of honor as they were called by the Satedans. Scars won in battle were celebrated, proudly bared to prove manhood. Ronon had believed that and stripped his body to his fellow soldiers. The scars on his back, he had kept hidden from the world until Sheppard had freed him.

John was breathing lightly, as if he slept. Ronon raised up on his elbow and peered over the plane of his cheek. Long lashes lay softly closed. He'd had his hair cut recently, and the skin exposed was vulnerable and pale beneath the dark hair which grew into a V at the nape. Ronon kissed it, breathing in John's scent. He moved a bit, spooned John and draped an arm across his shoulder.

Sheppard turned his head and opened a sleepy eye. “Guess this means I forgive you.”

“Guess so.”

“Good.”

“Same.”

In an hour, they'd wake up. In an hour, John would leave. In an hour, the world could change. But for that hour, Ronon would be safe.

 **The End**


End file.
